


12 Days - Tommy/Alfie Edition

by boundinshallows (museme87)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Porn Stars, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cohabitation, Confessions, Crossdressing, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First Meetings, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hanukkah, Holidays, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Infidelity, Jewish Holidays, Love Confessions, M/M, Magical Realism, Married Couple, Married Life, Meet-Cute, Negotiations, Phone Calls & Telephones, Politics, Rimming, Russian Literature, Sex Work, Walk Into A Bar, age disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21770023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/boundinshallows
Summary: This is a collection of 12 holiday drabbles focused on Tommy/Alfie. Each drabble is a standalone unless noted otherwise in the comments. Tags updated as I go along and warnings provided for ficlets featuring triggery topics.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 68
Kudos: 179





	1. Day 1 - Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> The goal is to post one fic a day through Christmas Eve. We'll see if this goes better than Inktober did in terms of scheduling! Happy holidays, y'all!

It’s midnight when Alfie gets up for a piss and notices the fairy lights are on in the living room. Scratching his stomach still half-asleep, he shuffles in to find Tommy curled up on the sofa with a mug of something in hand. Gin, probably. As Tommy likes to remind him, there’ll be plenty of time for sobriety when he’s dead.

“If you’re awake, Santa won’t show.”

Tommy glances over his shoulder and shakes his head, amused.

“I have it on good authority that Santa wasn’t stopping here anyway. Something about him being a Jew,” Tommy says as Alfie joins him on the sofa. “You know that doesn’t make any sense, eh?”

Alfie waves him off. “You still carryin’ on about that? Right, well then, can’t have you in a strop on Christmas, can we?”

For all his grogginess, Alfie manages to manhandle Tommy with only a bit of a tussle and holds him on his lap. Tommy does elbow him in the side, which Alfie thinks maybe he deserves, but stops struggling shortly after. Judging from the set of his jaw, however, Tommy remains indignant.

“Now Tommy, you’re technically a little old for this, but we’ll make an exception. Have you been a good boy or bad boy this year?”

“Oh fuck off,” Tommy shouts, trying to break free from Alfie’s arms.

“What? It’s how it goes, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So? Good or bad?”

Tommy frowns. “Bad. Quickly approaching murderous.”

“Mmm, naughty, are you?” Alfie asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You’re fucked in the head, Alfie. I feel like I’m in an awful Christmas-themed porno right now.”

Alfie laughs, which gives Tommy a chance to escape. It’s short lived as Alfie pulls him back in and flips them so that they half-sit, half-lie on the sofa. Though Alfie fully intends on continuing this little roleplay, he breaks character long enough to give Tommy a quick kiss on the nose. It does little to ease Tommy’s glare, however.

“Fine, I’ve decided what I want then.”

Alfie raises his brow in question.

“A new boyfriend. My current one wants to do mental shit like Santa roleplay.”

“My apologies, mate. ‘m afraid that the elves are fresh out this year. As a consolation gift though, I’ll let you suck on my candy c—”

“ _Jesus_! How the hell did I fall in love with you!”

Alfie blinks.

Tommy blinks.

“Did you just…?”

Tommy groans, his eyes shutting tightly. Alfie watches Tommy’s jaw work as he tries to process what Tommy said himself. They’ve known each other for a while now, but the relationship isn’t even a year old. Alfie expected he’d have to work for a love confession and even then anticipated that it’d never happen. Because Tommy, well, he’s the definition of emotionally unavailable, isn’t he?

Alfie expects Tommy to deny everything he said or explain it away. Instead, he just sighs and brings his fingers to Alfie’s cheek.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Tommy kisses him lightly. “Happy Christmas, you kinky fuck.”


	2. Day 2 - Baby, Please Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Baby, Please Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the holidays without a little angst, right?

“Alfie.”

And it’s obvious from the way he says it, innit? His voice all pained and warm—the way it always is, right, whenever Tommy’s about to tell him something he ain’t going to like. But it’s personal, because Tommy’s never like this, never sounds like some apologetic arsehole, when it’s business. It’d be easier if he did.

“Yeah, mate. ‘s me,” he says, trying to force some lightness into his voice. “Cyril ‘s still working on it, ain’t he? Not much success though, on account of him not havin’ opposable thumbs and all.”

Tommy sighs, and it occurs to Alfie that Tommy might be legitimately torn up a little over this. If he were a different man, he might prod at that revelation a little. Poke and nudge until he’s kicked it over to reveal its smooth, soft underbelly. He could do things to that vulnerable belly, couldn’t he? If he had an interest. Which, of course, he doesn’t.

“I wanted to be there.”

“Yeah, well, things happen, don’t they?”

“The kids…It’s madl here right now. I thought I’d be able to get away, but Charlie—”

“S’alright, Tom. Got a family to look after.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Tommy hisses into the phone. “You know where I wanted to be this evening.”

Alfie does. Though he hates the high holy days, Tommy apparently revels in the season. Or at least as much as Tommy Shelby can fucking revel in anything that’s not gin and his own damn ambition these days.

Alfie likes to imagine himself a man set in his ways at his age, but he found himself giving up ground when Tommy mentioned Hanukkah and Christmas coinciding this year. There’d been mild suggestions about exchanging gifts after vigorous fucks for the past several weeks. (Alfie only agreed because Tommy promised to bring a gift for Cyril too). Once Alfie had allowed for that, Tommy suggested a homecooked meal. Alfie’d begrudgingly acquired the roast. He’d also allowed for a few wreaths and other holiday décor, but drew a very clear line at a tree.

“You’re where you need to be,” Alfie says, finding the steel in his voice. “All the better for it. Roast went to hell.”

(It hadn’t. It smells delicious.)

“Then fuck the roast. It wasn’t about the roast anyway, eh.”

“Happy Christmas, Tom.”

“Alfie, don’t—”

“’M afraid I must be going now. There’s someone at my door.”

“Jesus, fuckin’—” Tommy huffs. “I’ll be there tomorrow. Tomorrow, alright? I’ll make it up to you. Just…Happy Hanukkah.”

Alfie hangs up the earpiece. And if he pauses for a long moment and then sends the whole bloody telephone soaring across the room, well, there’s no one around to see it. Except Cyril, but Cyril never tells.


	3. Day 3 - Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 - Winter

Long, long ago there lived a family who resided in a small house on a wide expanse of land. When the house was built, there lived a father, a mother, and two young boys, but within the year tragedy struck. The mother died in childbed, the eldest boy from a chill. The father turned to drink, all but forgetting his surviving, blue-eyed son.

Years would pass, and the drunkard father would remarry. His new wife was thick with child when she first crossed the threshold of the small house. Soon a new little son was born. The wife grew to resent the blue-eyed son, for he would inherit the father’s vast lands over her own little boy. And so the wife set to work, whittling away the father’s failing mind until he too believed that the blue-eyed son was the get of a witch and the devil himself.

One bitter winter’s night, the father and blue-eyed son took a sledge into the deep woods. When he could not go any further for fear of never returning, the father guided his blue-eyed son out of the sledge and begged him to wait. The son did not see the rock’s blow coming.

In the darkest hour of the night, the blue-eyed son woke to a storm of snow. Gone were the sledge’s tracks and with them any hope that he might return home. The son wandered around the forest in vain until his toes froze, and he was overcome by shivers.

As the blue-eyed son’s eyes grew heavy, a faint figure appeared before him—bearded and crowned and bedecked with furs. The figure grew nearer and looked upon the blue-eyed son’s face.

“Do you know who I am?”

The blue-eyed son did, for he was raised to give offerings to the domovoy, the leshy, the dvorovoy.

“You are the Winter King.”

“I am.”

“Have you come to take me?

The Winter King gazed down at the blue-eyed son thoughtfully.

“Are you warm?”

“Yes,” the blue-eyed son said, his mouth the color of pale water. “I am comfortable, my king.”

Around them, the trees crackled and wind grew sharp as if blowing frozen daggers. The Winter King knelt before the blue-eyed son.

“Are you warm, my beautiful boy?”

“I am.”

The blue-eyed son’s eyes’ shut, and snowflakes fell upon his lashes. The Winter King knew then that no finer human had ever stepped foot in his hollow.

And so a final time he asked: “Are you still warm, my love?”

“Aye.”

Moved by the blue-eyed son’s beauty and gentleness, the Winter King wrapped him in thick furs of great white beasts, threaded with strands of gold and silver. As if carried in on the bitter wind, a sledge appeared before them pulled by six white stallions. The Winter King bundled the blue-eyed son in his arms and leaned down to kiss the son’s parted lips. Numb fingers slipped across the King’s cheek as the King withdrew and found the blue-eyed son’s eyes had turned brilliant azure.

“I am warm, your grace.”

“And so you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was inspired heavily by Russian folklore, which I felt was fitting given Alfie's ties. It specifically draws from the tale of [Morozko, or King Frost](http://www.mythfolklore.net/andrewlang/017.htm). I was also heavily influenced by Katherine Arden's The Bear and the Nightingale and her larger Winternight trilogy. If you've not read it, please run, don't walk, to your nearest bookstore. It's phenomenal, particularly if you're a fan of historical fiction and magical realism.


	4. Day 4 - Warm Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 - Warm Bath

It’s nearly lunch time when Tommy hears Alfie return and call out to see if he’s home. Tommy ignores him; he’s nearly finished reading this damn contract and doesn’t need another excuse to put it off again. So, he settles back into the sofa in his home office, the indistinct sounds of Alfie talking to himself carrying down the corridor.

Not ten minutes later, Tommy gets up and stretches. He grabs his mug of cooling coffee and slips out the door in search of his boyfriend. There’s mumbling coming from the bath. While he’d been eager to reheat last night’s takeaway, Tommy’s interest suddenly shifts to joining Alfie in the bath. Like as not, his back is acting up again.

He pads his way into the bath and nearly has his greeting out before Alfie turns around quickly, startled and apparently not all that excited to see him.

“Thought you were out.”

“I decided to work from home. The roads being what they are.”

“Right, well—”

Alfie is abruptly cut off by what sounds like a whine coming from the bathtub and a little splish-splash. Tommy’s eyebrow raises sharply as Alfie turns around to shush whatever it is that he’s smuggled into the house.

“Alfie—”

“Don’t you fuckin’ start, alright?”

“What—”

Something barks, and Tommy has the maddening suspicion that it’s not, in fact, his bathtub at all that’s making the noise. But the alternative would be unthinkable, eh? Because while he might have let slip that he’s in love with Alfie—and maybe even cleaned out a spot in the wardrobe for his clothing—he _knows_ for a fucking fact that Alfie wouldn’t be mental enough to bring a dog home. For one, he’s not a child.

And yet.

“Oi!” Alfie says, rounding to the tub. “You ain’t helpin’ your bloody case now, are you, mate? None of that.”

Tommy takes advantage of Alfie’s distraction to peer into the tub to find not a dog, but a _puppy_ covered in what appears to be all manner of filth. A dull pain begins to throb in his head, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Why is there a dog in my house?”

“Well I couldn’t just leave him there, could I? Little mite would have froze clean to death in this snow. Someone dumped him in a cardboard box near the bins at the shops. And being the good Samaritan—” Tommy snorts, but Alfie presses on. “—the good fucking Samaritan that I am, right, I brought him with me.”

“He’s not staying.”

“Bloody _unreasonable_ ,” Alfie mutters.

“He probably has fleas. I’m going to have to call in the exterminator.”

“Yeah, well, that’s rich, ain’t it? Coming from _you_. Considering you turned me down the first time because you’d caught crabs from some prostitute. But you didn’t see me kickin’ you out into the cold, did ya?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Alfie picks the pup up—heedless of the mess that’s getting all over the front of his shirt and the floor—and steps forward so Tommy can see him properly. He has massive paws for such a small thing, which only makes Tommy more wary.

“Look at that face and tell me again that I should send him packin’.”

“The dog—”

“Cyril.”

“You _named_ him?” Tommy asks, balking and feeling the dread slowly creeping in.

“Had to call him somethin’, didn’t I? It’d be bad manners to take him all the way to the pet shop and back here without introducin’ ourselves.”

“We’re not—”

“It’s the _holidays_. You’re a right grinch, aren’t you, turnin’ out a poor little thing like Cyril here.” Alfie turns to Cyril and whispers. “Heart ‘s three bloody sizes too small. Lucky for him his cock compensates.”

“I’m not…” Tommy throws up his arms in surrender. “Figure something out, Alfie.”

It’s much later that evening—while Alfie holds Cyril, wearing matching sweaters, and explains the finer points of Hanukkah traditions—that Tommy realizes this was never a fight he was going to win.

He falls asleep that night to the sound of Alfie’s snores and a puppy bum in his face.


	5. Day 5 - Scarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Scarves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a hustler!au (similar to or in the same 'verse as the Inktober one, featuring an up-and-coming gangster Alfie and young Tommy), which means that involves most of the triggers associated with such a setting and a few others. All that being said, this is a rather fluffy chapter that discusses these triggers only in passing and contains no smut (!!! shocking, I know). 
> 
> Trigger warnings (for this chapter only): sex work (implied underage and also mentioned barely legal), dub-con and/or non-con (mentioned/past), drug use (mentioned)

“—v’higiyani lez’men hezah.”

“No, the last bit, it’s: v’higiyanu laz’man hazeh. Your Hebrew could use some work, mate.”

Tommy frowns up at Alfie and then down at the menorah they’ve just lit. He’d _tried_ to get it right, but he can’t get his mouth and tongue around the words that Alfie’s been teaching him for the past ten minutes. At the very least he hopes he hasn’t offended Alfie’s God. Tommy knows he’s already made a mess of things with Aunt Pol’s, what with the hustling, drinking, and occasional drug use. He’s not sure he can afford to anger another.

“S’fine, s’fine,” Alfie says, wrapping his arm around Tommy’s middle and drawing him closer between his legs. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to afford to send you to Hebrew school. Keep you from mangling the bloody language.”

“I _hate_ school. I didn’t stay in regular school, so what makes you think I’ll go to _extra_ school.”

“Oh, I didn’t say you’d go willingly, did I?” Alfie kisses Tommy’s temple. “I’ll have to bind and gag you, I suspect.”

Tommy scoffs and rolls his eyes, acting all of his seventeen years. “As if you’d go to the trouble of binding and gagging me and let me leave the flat.”

“Cheeky bugger, aren’t you?”

Tommy sits up and walks to their dodgy mattress on the floor. He’s mindful of the bit with the broken spring and deftly navigates away from the still-drying patch of cum before plopping down. The bed is a tangle of thinning and stained linens, their pillows flat and lifeless. The draft from the ancient window sends a shiver down his spine, but Tommy pays it little mind. As far as he’s concerned, this little room Alfie rents is the closest thing to paradise he’s likely ever to see.

“Come on. I want my gift. You promised.”

“And what makes you think you haven’t got it already?” Alfie asks, eyes flickering down to his pelvis before meeting Tommy’s gaze with a raised brow.

“Fuck off,” Tommy says, pouting. “Do you know how often I hear that line?”

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re different.”

Alfie _is_. Sure, Tommy doesn’t get half the shit he says most of the time (and has stopped trying to pretend he does), and he doesn’t understand the whole gangster business. He knows Alfie has enemies, that there are a lot of people who don’t appreciate Alfie stealing their territory. Tommy’s _seen_ what a couple of them have done to Alfie, in fact. He’s also heard how Alfie’s answered them back. Some man named Hendel died and another named Rinaldi is in a coma somewhere.

Alfie’s a dangerous man. But the thing is, Tommy’s around dangerous men all the time. He doesn’t exactly have much choice, especially when he’s half-starved and its winter. He’s been knocked around, done things he’d rather not have done. Alfie, though…Alfie doesn’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to. And he _cares_. He cares about whether or not Tommy’s looking after himself, whether he’s being safe, whether he enjoys their time together or not. No one has ever really given a shit about that before—Tommy’s pleasure.

And he can hear his aunt Pol now, saying that that’s no reason to be half in love with a man. Tommy supposes she isn’t wrong, but it’s also a lot more than he can expect from most of the men he fucks.

The brush of Alfie’s fingers against his cheek takes him from that line of thinking.

“Still payin’ for you, poppet.”

Tommy shrugs. “I’d do you for free.”

It makes Alfie smile and shake his head. Reaching down to a pile of dirty clothes, Alfie tosses a few shirts out of the way and reveals a small box wrapped up in newspaper. He joins Tommy on the mattress before passing the box to Tommy’s eager hands. Within a split second, Tommy has the newsprint shredded and beat-up box ripped wide open.

Inside the box is a soft, thick scarf that Tommy had been eyeing a few weeks ago in the window display of some posh shop. Well, Tommy isn’t sure that it was _posh_ posh, but the shop was far beyond his price range and probably Alfie’s too. As he brings the blue material between his fingers, Tommy realizes it’s the nicest thing he’s probably ever owned.

“You nicked it?”

“Nah, not this time. Wouldn’t have felt like a proper gift if I had.”

Tommy frowns. “But that shop was expensive.”

Alfie tugs Tommy forward to straddle his hips and takes his face between his hands. Tommy’s a little unnerved by the gesture. It’s not that Tommy’s afraid of what Alfie’s going to do—he’s not been afraid of Alfie for a very long time—but that no one has ever looked at him quite like Alfie’s looking at him now. It’s as if Alfie thinks he can look into his eyes and see everything Tommy was, is, and will be.

“You listen to me, alright?”

Tommy nods slowly.

“One day, right, one day very soon if I have my say, I’m going to buy you anything you want from that shop and a dozen more besides. Better ones, in fact. You’re _mine_ , and I’ll give you anything—any fucking thing—you’d like. Understand? No more wanting, not for either of us. We’ll have a proper flat. A new mattress. And I’ll fuck you on silk sheets every night and throw them away in the morning.”

“Promise?” Tommy asks, feeling the pad of Alfie’s thumb draw across his lips.

“The whole fucking world, Tom,” he says, eyes steady. “The whole bloody lot of it.”


	6. Day 6 - Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - Snowed In

The sound of knuckles rapping lazily on the door to his dressing room has Alfie lifting his head from the assortment of papers on his lap. Tommy doesn’t bother waiting for a welcome; he just slips inside and leans against the wall. There’s a comfort between them, built over several years in the business, and that extends to their respective spaces in the studio.

Sitting back in his chair, Alfie smiles at him, open and warm. He’s surprised to see Tommy, but pleasantly so. If he’s honest with himself, right—and he _is_ , usually, because there isn’t much sense in living in denial—Tommy has been the best part of the job for a while now even if they seldom work together. Alfie’s carried a bit of a torch for him, and there’s an ache in his chest seeing Tommy here, now—today of all days—looking smart in a simple jumper and trousers.

“End of an era, eh?” Tommy says with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Alfie replies, waving him off. “I didn’t know you were on set today.”

“I wasn’t. Just stopped by to pick this up.”

“Next script?”

Tommy snorts. “If you can call it that. One of Mosley’s.”

“Yeah?”

“ _Hung by the Chimney_. A riveting tale of sexual exploits between two childhood friends who get snowed in at a remote mountain resort.”

Alfie does what he can to stifle his laughter—in his many, many years in porn he’s starred in some fucking _awful_ films—but the deadpan expression on Tommy’s face undoes him. And his laughter is contagious, catching first with a smile and then a string of good-natured curses as Tommy shakes his head and rubs his face with his hands.

“Honestly, mate, that sounds tame for him,” Alfie manages when he’s finally caught his breath.

“Did I forget to mention the Christmas-themed sex dungeon housed in the resort’s basement? Unadvertised in the brochure, but most welcome by our gay-curious protagonists.”

“Fuuuck me.” Alfie exhales, amused. “That’s…yeah, that’s one of Mosley’s alright. Promise me you won’t let Darby talk you into takin’ a candy cane up your arse. It won’t end well, and it’s far too fine an arse to compromise.”

“Christ, I’m going to miss you,” Tommy says, a little sadly.

Pushing off the wall, Tommy crosses the room and sits on the beat-up sofa closer to Alfie. He settles in and looks like the twenty-year-old kid he was a few years ago, a little lost and uncertain. Alfie’d always been able to offer him some sage advice (that he pulled directly out of his arse, mind) back then when Tommy would plop down on the sofa and ask Alfie what the fuck he’d gotten himself into. But Tom’s been in the business long enough now not to need that from him anymore; he’d stopped coming to him awhile ago. So it’s a little strange then, right, to have Tommy here, like this, just now.

“You were in one of the first pornos I ever masturbated to.”

Alfie blinks. “I’m…honored?”

“I just meant that, well, what I said earlier, eh? It feels like the end of an era for me—you retiring.”

“It’s time though, ain’t it. It’s gettin’ more difficult to stay in shape. Goin’ a bit soft in the middle,” Alfie says, poking his stomach. “Besides, ain’t like I’m about to miss the golden age of porn, what with the likes of Mosley and Johnny Dogs writin’ scripts for Darby.”

“You’re still fucking fit, Alfie. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Thanks, mate. Really. But I’m over all this.” Alfie gestures to the room. “Paid the bills when I needed it to, but my heart ain’t in it anymore.”

“What are you going to do instead?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about startin’ a bakery. –Oi, don’t you fuckin’ laugh, you little shit. I make a _clafoutis_ that would put you in an early grave, mate, on account of it being so delicious. Life after would pale in fuckin’ comparison, wouldn’t it?”

“You’ll have to let me know when you open then. I’ll be your first customer.”

“Yeah, well, I’m chargin’ you twice as much, ain’t I, for that little laugh track just now.”

Tommy’s bashful grin, the way his eyes flick up to catch a look at him, makes Alfie’s heart seize up just a bit. He’d read into it maybe if it weren’t for the fact that he and Tommy have been doing this for a long time. There’s always been an easiness between them that Alfie has occasionally read as real affection. But Tommy never acted on it, and Alfie felt like a louse for even entertaining the idea of pursuing a man seven years his junior. It hardly matters anymore, but it did when Tommy was a wide-eyed young man barely beyond his teens.

Tommy shifts a little and meets his gaze.

“Would you like to get a drink sometime?”

“Yeah, sure. We can go now if you like,” Alfie offers and then glances down at the dressing gown he’s wearing from shooting the final scene earlier that day. “Just let me change. It’ll only take—”

“I meant a _drink_. A proper one.”

When Alfie redirects his gaze to him, he thinks he sees Tommy blushing a bit. It catches Alfie a bit off guard. There’s no way to misinterpret the second invitation, but Alfie doesn’t quite believe it despite all that.

“A date?”

Tommy shrugs. “We can call it that.”

“And you just thought to ask me this now?” Alfie asks slowly. “When I’m leavin’ the business.”

“Listen,” Tommy says, huffing. “I don’t fuck my coworkers. At least not anymore. Not since Grace went to the tabloids and nearly sank my career.”

“But I’m not you coworker any longer.”

“I’ve felt this way for a while, but it seemed too risky. I apologize for any mixed signals I may have sent. The interest is genuine.”

Alfie hums and considers. And it’s all a bit for show really. He might’ve been surprised by all this, but he hasn’t completely lost his senses.

“Alright,” he agrees. “I suppose since I already know what your arse feels like that it’s high time I learn if you can hold a conversation over dinner.”

Tommy smirks. “That’s what you’re after: dinner conversation?”

Alfie neither confirms nor denies.


	7. Day 7 - Once a Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 - Once a Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a lot of liberties with punctuation and grammar with this one, folks. I'm sorry if it doesn't read well, but it *felt* right, so you know... Artistic license, etc. etc.

The eighteenth of December.

It’s been five years since that first, fateful time. Since Tommy’s first _we can’t_ , _not anymore_ as he slid his arms over Alfie’s broad shoulders with a mad desire to touch one last time. Since Alfie’s first _fuck that_ and then his amended _she can have the rest, just give me one bleedin’ day_ as his fingers dug into Tommy’s hipbones. _Bruise me_ , Tommy’d though back then. _Fuck some sense_ out _of me, and for Christ’s sake don’t let me walk out this door_.

Alfie had. Because the exchange of control is a delicate thing. Tommy always relinquished it all to Alfie when he was pressed into Alfie’s cool linens, but Alfie was well aware, since that initial spark between them, that Tommy controlled all else. And Tommy’s decision to leave the next morning, to return to his sweet fiancée, well…that’d been all well within Tommy’s realm of things.

Tommy’d made promises to his bride, ones that Alfie never knew about. Maybe at the time he’d said those words to her, he meant them. That he wouldn’t stray from her bed, that she’d be his only love and have all of him. But he _had_ strayed, of course, eventually. And Tommy supposed that technically it wasn’t exactly a lie when he said that she could lay claim to all of him.

After all, he’d given away a part of himself months before, and he could hardly steal them back to gift to her. They were no longer his to give away, especially when the recipient had no desire to return them to him, mangled up and wrapped with a pretty bow of half-hearted apologies. Or no, not pretty. Not hardly. Alfie’d spit on those bits of his heart if he’d ever return them; it would be an ugly, terrible thing that would cut Tommy up from the inside and leave him a wounded animal. So no, he hadn’t strictly broken any promises to his wife on that count. But yes, he did seek out the comfort of someone else. One day, only once a year. And as far as his sins went, well, it didn’t even really feel like a crime against her.

*

“Fuck, deeper,” Tommy pants into Alfie’s ear. “Christ.”

To his credit, Alfie tries, Tommy’s back pressing further into the mattress with the strength of his thrusts. But it’s still not _enough_ for Tommy, and he isn’t sure it ever could be. Tommy does what he can to bend his knees further into his chest, using his heels against Alfie’s back as leverage. Alfie’s groans, suddenly a little pain in that pleasure, and Tommy rubs a soothing hand along his shoulder blade. He’s not sorry for hurting Alfie’s back now, but he’ll draw him a bath later in silent apology.

“Tommy, I—”

“No.” Tommy presses a sloppy kiss to Alfie’s cheek. “Not yet. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Alfie huffs, not unlike a heavy exhale from one of his prize horses. Tommy nips at his ear and scours Alfie’s back with his nails, grown a bit longer than normal for the occasion. As he hisses, Alfie’s hips lose their rhythm, but Tommy’s touch, his whispered _so good_ , keeps Alfie from leaning into the feeling too much.

“That’s it. Stay with me. _Oh_.”

Tommy moans as Alfie’s cock drags slow over that spot inside him. As Alfie moves over it again and again, Tommy feels the rising _thrum_ of pleasure building, quickly and intense. And it hurts almost. Hurts because it’s such a foreign feeling nowadays, for both his body and himself, but one that addles his brain from the pain of it. It loosens his tongue to the point where Tommy isn’t sure if he’s only thinking or actually saying the words. Little things like _missed this_ and _need more_ , like _hate being away_ and _think I love you_.

Alfie shushes him, soothes his wet gasps with fingertips to the scalp as he pounds into him.

“S’alright, Tom. I’ve got ya.” Alfie kisses his forehead. “S’alright.”


	8. Day 8 - Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 - Mistletoe

His mind focuses in on the sharp thin leaves, on the small white berries, on the cluster of greenery that hangs above them from the arch of the doorway between rooms. His thoughts briefly drift to shouting at the staff for hanging the damn thing in the first place, but that line of thinking is abruptly interrupted by the feel of Alfie’s hands straying lower down his chest.

But it’s not just Alfie’s hands. A moment later it’s Alfie himself who drops to his knees and makes deft work of Tommy’s trousers until the heat of his skin meets cool air. Tommy’s eyes flutter shut as he steps out of one trouser leg, his head meeting the back of the archway with a _thunk_. This is _not_ a good idea. He could fill a pad of paper with all the reasons why he should _not,_ under any terms, have allowed himself and Alfie to arrive in this position.

His fingers twitch.

“Alfie,” he warns, but it lacks steel. “What—”

“Mistletoe, innit?”

Alfie’s breath is a ghost over his quickly hardening cock. His hips shift forward minutely, chasing the warmth, before he regains control.

“You’re meant to _kiss_ under the mistletoe, eh? Not suck cock. Christ.”

“Oh,” Alfie says, looking up from where he kneels on the floor. “You will have to forgive me, Thomas. It’s true that I do have a lot to learn, right—there’s many, many things yet—about your holiday customs. However, I consider myself an expert on all things related to mistletoe as a matter of fact.”

“That right?”

Tommy knows he should take this moment’s reprieve to stop this whole thing. Because that little flicker of _something_ in Alfie’s blue eyes tells him that they’re quickly passing the point of no return. Rarely does he recognize when they’re on the cusp of it; usually they’re miles beyond stopping when Tommy thinks to protest. Oh, he doesn’t _want_ to protest per se, not when he has Alfie slicked up inside him. But for appearance’s sake—for plausible deniability—he feels he ought to make the gesture at the very least.

To his credit, Tommy does get as far as parting his lips to tell Alfie to knock it off, but he’s cut off by Alfie’s hands on his hips, maneuvering him to turn around. Startled, Tommy’s heart suddenly beats jackrabbit fast in his chest. His breath hitches at the feel of Alfie’s rough fingertips on his arse, pressing into muscle and parting him.

“What the fuck,” Tommy manages.

“Tradition, mate,” Alfie says, cool and collected. “Kiss under the mistletoe.”

His head swims with Alfie’s words, so much that he places his forearm against the archway and rests his tightly shut eyes against it to steady himself. Alfie’s beard scratches the tender flesh of his arse cheek, making Tommy’s legs tremble.

They’ve never done this. It feels like Tommy’s had Alfie’s mouth everywhere on him, but never quite _there_. And it’s filthy, absolutely filthy just thinking about it. Tommy hears Alfie breathe him in and then feels the gentle press of lips against his hole.

The air in his lungs sudden dissipates, his body shudders. Alfie’s warm hand is on his thigh, rubbing soothing circles like he’s stroking a spooked animal. And then Alfie’s back at it again, another kiss, this time more certain.

Tommy breathes through it, tries to focus on the sensation and not the details of it all. There’s wetness from Alfie’s spit and then the gentle prod of a tongue that makes Tommy’s knees buckle. He hates himself for letting it get this far; he hates himself _more_ for not wanting it to stop.

Alfie’s reverent in his touch. It doesn’t matter which part of his body is doing the touching. And when Tommy can let himself ease into it, when the tension leaves him as much as it can leave anyone who finds himself in this position for the first time, he finds his hips naturally press back into the feeling.

Alfie hums his appreciation.


	9. Day 9 - Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - Tradition

Opening night always has a way of draining Tommy more than other nights of the run. That’s why, when his director approached him after the performance and explained that one of the ballet’s most generous patrons requested a private meeting, Tommy balked. Miraculously though, he’d held his tongue. His position as principal was newly minted; he was several years away from being able to act the primadonna like Ms. Burgess. Which is exactly how he finds himself outside very expensive box seating instead of drowning himself in whisky with the rest of the company.

Tommy draws back the curtain, expecting to discover some aging grandmother bedecked with enough jewels to feed most of the poor in Birmingham. Instead, he finds himself face-to-face with a man just slightly order than himself, broad and probably rather handsome beneath that scruffy beard. For a moment, Tommy forgets his irritation in lieu of memorizing how well this stranger fills out a suit, but the man’s arched eyebrow has his impatience rushing back.

“You do understand that this is the Royal Ballet and not an escort service, don’t you?” Tommy asks, folding his arms over his chest. “You can’t just summon whoever catches your eye.”

The man smirks. “Right, and yet, here you are. Funny, innit, how that works?”

“I came because my director made it clear that my place with the company depended on not alienating you. So yes, here I am. Tommy Shelby, but I suspect you already know that.”

“Alfie Solomons.”

Tommy accepts Alfie’s outstretched hand and shakes it while maintaining eye contact. There’s something wily about him that makes his stomach flip-flop pleasantly. Despite being dressed appropriately for the venue, Tommy can’t shake the idea that Alfie is out of place.

“ _At_ the risk of alienating you,” Tommy begins carefully. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who frequents the ballet.”

Alfie laughs—a deep rumble that fills up Tommy’s chest, squeezing his lungs.

“Bit of a family tradition, right, when we could afford it. When I was just a little lad.” Alfie leans in, as if confiding in a secret. “Me mum danced on that very stage when she was young.”

“What was her name?” Tommy asks, suddenly intrigued despite his earlier annoyance.

Alfie waves him off.

“You wouldn’t know her. Tragically fell. Of no fault of the ballet’s anti-Semitic director, naturally, as these things happen all the time. Cut her career short though. She had to enjoy her life’s passion from the seats after that. After I made a bit of a name for meself, I made sure she had season tickets for the last few decades of her life.”

His heart constricts at the mention of Alfie’s mother’s fall. He’s been dancing since he could walk practically—thanks to his Aunt Pol and much to his fucking father’s disgust—and has had some near misses. Tommy frowns, his eyes shifting briefly to the stage.

“I’m sorry to hear it. I hope the fucker’s career ended in shame.”

“Oh, it ended rather abruptly that’s for sure. Very, very, very terrible car accident some two decades ago. Ghastly thing.” Alfie tsks, then whispers, “Something with the brake lines and, if you can believe it, the safety belt. When they found him, he was nearly cut clean in half. A real fucking tragedy, that.”

The way Alfie stares at him, eyes narrowing, makes Tommy feel like Alfie’s waiting on a reaction from him. And maybe he _ought_ to react at the thinly veiled confession, but Tommy can’t manage it. If Alfie wants to intimidate him, he’ll have to go about it a different way. Tommy’s no stranger to a little violence, nor to racism of his own sort. He’d been called a gypsy cunt most of his life, and he and his brothers made sure those people answered for it. So instead of trembling with fear, Tommy simply shrugs.

“Mumma’s boy then?”

“She was a lovely lady,” Alfie says, smiling warmly. “Deserved the world twice over.”

“So, did you come here to allude to your murderous impulses and trade stories about mums, or…?”

And there it is, that laughter again. Tommy can’t hold back his grin this time.

“Nah, nothing like that. Been told I ramble a bit.” Alfie clears his throat. “I just wanted to tell you directly what a remarkable talent you’ve got. Ought to have been cast as the Sugar Plum Fairy herself.”

Tommy wonders if Alfie can see into the past, back to the little boy who saw the Nutcracker once with Aunt Pol and dreamed of dancing like the Sugar Plum Fairy. He feels his cheeks warm and has the urge to rub the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed.

“That’s a little too avant-garde for the Royal Ballet, but thanks.”

“Pity, looks like I’ll have to start my own company then, won’t I?”

There’s a sparkle in Alfie’s eyes that makes Tommy wonder if he’s being serious. He’s only known him for a handful of minutes, but it didn’t take long to figure out that Alfie Solomons is an eccentric man. Tommy doesn’t find it entirely unappealing, despite himself.

“Good evening, Mr. Solomons,” Tommy says, hoisting his rucksack over his shoulder. “I suspect this won’t be the last time I see you.”


	10. Day 10 - Naughty or Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 - Naughty or Nice

Glancing once more at the clock, Alfie is overcome with the urge to _throttle_ his husband and bury him six feet under.

_No one is goin’ to find your fuckin’ body, Thomas, so help me…_

He didn’t even want to _go_ to this bloody holiday event, but Tommy’d all but told him he could expect divorce papers in the post if he kept pitching a fit about it. And Alfie knew, right, fuckin’ _knew_ that _that_ little threat was a fuckin’ lie, wasn’t it, because a divorce would jeopardize Tommy’s MP campaign. But, like the _brilliant_ husband he is—and he _is_ ; he swore he’d stand by Tommy in his wedding vows (though, as a matter of record, Alfie does like to bring up the fact that that was _before_ Tommy’s raging fuckin’ hard-on for politics)—yeah, like the brilliant husband he is, he’d agreed to attend.

And now he’s all dressed-up in a Tommy Shelby Approved suit—ready to walk out the fuckin’ door—and Tommy’s not so much as darkened the stairs. Which, right, he should have _known_ would happen because Tommy’d come home not two hours past with one of those bags from the posh shops he likes. And whenever _that_ happens Tommy takes a bloody _age_ to dress. But they need to leave now if they plan on getting there at a reasonable time, especially considering traffic in this bloody weather and Tommy’s need to stop by The Garrison for a shot for courage.

So like the reasonable man he is, Alfie takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into their bedroom, prepared to sternly but lovingly tell his husband under no uncertain terms to hurry-the-fuck-up.

Instead, his mouth goes suddenly dry.

“You’ve never given me this much time to get ready since I’ve known you. I’ve been waiting for you for twenty minutes now.”

If his mind could function properly, he’d probably tell Tommy that that’s not true at all, that he’s waited much longer. But, the thing is, it _can’t_. Because Tommy—his handsome, infuriating, whip-smart husband—is lounging on their bed, one hand behind his head, in stockings, garters, and lace knickers. Alfie feels suddenly dizzy with the rush of his blood racing to his cock.

“Have I…been shot again?” Alfie asks carefully, disbelievingly.

“This is very real.”

Tommy’s words are enough to get him moving toward the bed, but Alfie can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something very important. He wracks his mind for dates, events, fuckin’ _anything_. There’s not a thing he can remember though.

As he climbs onto the bed—and Tommy, Christ, he settles further into the linens and just _stares_ with those bewitching eyes of his—Alfie thinks the only possible conclusions are that Tommy’s decided to leave him or murder him, but wants to give him a parting gift to show his appreciation for their many, many years of phenomenal sex.

“Tommy, love,” Alfie begins, uncertain. “Not that I’m complainin’—and I think, right, that I’m demonstratin’ a very, very _keen_ interest judgin’ by my cock—but what’s the fuckin’ occasion?”

“Ada says I don’t appreciate you enough.”

“Ada says…?”

Tommy runs his hands up Alfie’s chest and over his shoulders. Alfie feels drawn in when Tommy bites his own lower lip, giving Alfie those puppy eyes that he so rarely uses. Tommy’s trying to be _charming_ , which scares the _shit_ out of him.

“Come here,” Tommy whispers, pulling Alfie down by his tie.

“We have the fuckin’ par—”

“Forget it. We’ll be late, or we won’t show. I don’t care anymore.”

Alfie’s eyes narrow. “This is about the pollin’ numbers, isn’t it? Ada told you I’m out-performing your opponent’s she-devil of a wife by double digits with middle-aged women and grannies.”

“That’s not…” Tommy pauses, glancing sideways. “She may have led with that, but that’s not why I’m doing this.”

He feels the tie around his neck loosen and Tommy’s leg wrap around his hip. At this point, Alfie doesn’t much care _why_ Tommy’s letting him have this particular fantasy; he only cares that he doesn’t say anything to fuck it up.

Alfie allows his gaze to settle on Tommy’s hips, at the strain of his cock in those too-small knickers. His fingers skim along the lace, teasing Tommy as he tries to memorize the feel of hot, hard cock wrapped in lace.

“Sweetheart,” Alfie practically purrs, having just discovered the wet patch near Tommy’s slit. “Your knickers are soaked.”

Tommy lifts his hips then, seeking out more pressure. And he’s a beauty like this, ain’t he, so Alfie has no choice but to oblige him with the flat of his palm. Tommy sucks in a sharp breath. His brow knits as he reaches for Alfie’s hand.

“Do you like them?”

“’m mad for them. And you. Christ, Tommy-love.”

Tommy guides Alfie’s hand across his hipbone and down his toned thighs. Alfie grips him, fingers pushing into lean muscle. It takes him a moment to notice the difference, but when he does, Alfie’s eyes seek out Tommy’s leg.

“You shaved?”

“Didn’t want to ruin the effect of the stockings. I thought you might appreciate it.”

“I do, indeed, appreciate it,” Alfie says reverently.

Tommy leans up to capture Alfie’s lips. And it’s an uncoordinated mess at first because Alfie can’t quite get his brain to let go of the sensation of Tommy’s smooth skin under his hands. He manages, though, with a flick of Tommy’s tongue against the seam of his mouth. Alfie opens eagerly, pushing back against Tommy’s tongue and eliciting a long moan from him. His head swims with it until Tommy pulls back a bit. His eyes are puppy-wide again, but not nearly as wholesome.

“I think you should suck me through my panties,” Tommy says, his thumb tracing Alfie’s wet, lower lip. “But before you do that, you ought to grab the old polaroid. You have a remarkable eye for beautiful things, Mr. Solomons.”

Alfie doesn’t even mention Tommy’s self-flattery, mostly because he agrees entirely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at the moment I don't know which day exactly this little project will wrap up. At the latest, I imagine it'll be the 26th. Day 12 isn't particularly holiday-y, so I don't think the effect will be ruined by posting it after Christmas.


	11. Day 11 - Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11 - Candles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct follow-up to Day 2 - Baby Please Come Home. The general consensus on discord was that folks would rather see bad father Tommy (since it's canon anyway) than bad lover Tommy, so here we are. A little fix-it fic for your Christmas Eve.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here? And at this hour?” Alfie growls. “Fuckin’ hell, Tom.”

Tommy blinks at him before shouldering his way through the door, leaving Alfie no choice but to shut it behind him. Alfie watches as Tommy slips out of his coat and hat, hanging them on the coat hooks in their now familiar place, and waits. It’s nearly half one in the morning. Not twelve hours ago Tommy’d cancelled on him on account of the children, so Alfie has no idea what changed in the meantime.

“I’m not going to say this again, so listen carefully,” Tommy explains, looking Alfie in the eye. “I apologize for dinner and changing plans last minute.”

Alfie closes his eyes and holds up his hand, trying to wrap his mind around what Tommy’s saying.

“Forgive me if I’m misrememberin’, right, but I think we had this conversation on the fuckin’ phone this afternoon. And when we spoke, I told you that your place was at home. But you, you never fuckin’ listen, do ya?”

“I didn’t want to be there,” Tommy says simply. “I felt I had to be, but I’m tired of looking out for everyone else and putting my wants aside.”

Alfie doesn’t even try to stop his brow from rising at that. The day Tommy Shelby puts his _wants aside_ is the day that Alfie can say with a certainty, right, that hell as surely froze the fuck over. And if he were a better man, he might point that out to Tommy and send him back to his wife and children. But, much like Tommy, he’s a bad man who has done bad things, and they’re not his wife and children to worry about disappointing, were they?

But still, Alfie’s not one to let him get away with a comment like _that_ entirely.

“You’re a selfish fuckin’ prick.”

Tommy shrugs.

*

Tommy stretches and places a quick kiss on his jaw before taking a drag off his cigarette. In a few minutes, Alfie will have his wits about him again and remind him they’d agreed Tommy wouldn’t smoke in the bedroom anymore, but he doesn’t have the energy or sense to have this argument just now. He’s too sated in his post-orgasm haze and would like to cling to it a bit longer. So instead, he grips Tommy’s free hand and brings Tommy’s knuckles to his lips, placing kisses along the protruding bones.

“Alfie?”

“Hmm?”

Tommy shifts his head on the pillow, his face lit only by candlelight. Briefly, Alfie thinks he might have one of those paintings done of Tommy like this—naked and spent and awash in candle glow. He wonders if Tommy would consent to it. Just maybe, if Alfie made it worth it for him. Alfie knows he’d pay dearly for it, monetarily and otherwise. But having such a portrait of Tommy—being able to remember him like this—well, no cost seems too great just now, does it?

“Alfie,” Tommy says again, this time rolling onto his side. “I want to divorce my wife.”

The squeeze of Tommy’s hand makes all that that confession implies clear. 


	12. Day 12 - Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 - Family

“Here we are,” Ada announces, stopping in front of a festively decorated pub.

It takes Tommy a moment to register what Ada’s said as they never go drinking on this street. It’s an unexpected turn of events to say the least, but Tommy walks back a few steps until he’s standing near the entrance in front of his sister. His eyes linger on the windows where a few parties catch-up over over-priced beers. There are event posters in the corner advertising all manner of things—open mic night, a book club, a singles event. Tommy wonders how he can go about convincing Ada to drink literally anywhere else but this place.

“This doesn’t look like your typical haunt. Is there a particular reason why we’re drinking here tonight?”

“It isn’t,” Ada says matter-of-factly. “And _I’m_ not.”

When Ada crosses her arms over her chest and gives him the _look_ , Tommy knows he’s been had.

“ _You’re_ going in there.” Ada points to the door. “They have this singles mixer tonight. James said it was decent. Met his last boyfriend there even.”

“What the fuck, Ada?”

“You’ve been an utter shit lately. John thinks you need to get fucked more regularly. Thinks it’ll help improve your mood. And I don’t disagree.”

Tommy stares at her a moment, but when he realizes she’s dead serious, he looks away and exhales, his jaw working. “I get fu—”

“Yeah, and you pay for it. At the rate you need to be laid, you’ll bankrupt the whole fucking company, won’t you. So go in there and get yourself someone who doesn’t charge by the hour.”

*

As he scans the room, Tommy hates himself a bit for being bullied into this by his little sister. (He doesn’t dare tell her _no_ though, which is why his brothers likely sent her in their stead.) In the far back is a partitioned off section that looks like it’s meant for an event. Tommy can’t help but think that—based on how fucking pathetic the group of people there look—that’s where he’s meant to be.

Except it’s not where he’s going. He knows he can’t leave the pub for an hour at least—Ada probably has fucking spies watching the place in case he leaves straight away—so he takes a seat at the bar and orders a whisky. _The first of many tonight_ , he thinks. No sooner is it passed to him that he slams it back and signals to the barkeep for another.

“Findin’ some courage, hmm?” the man next to him asks, nodding in the direction of the group.

Tommy doesn’t bother to respond to that, and instead asks his own question.

“Are you here for this ridiculous fucking thing?”

“Me, mate? Nah.”

The man makes it sound as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard of, which has Tommy suddenly warming towards him. When he looks at his neighbor again, Tommy spares him more than just a passing glance this time. He’s bearded with hair sticking up in every direction at the back of his head. Broad in the shoulders, his flannel shirt straining a bit around his arms. His wrists hidden beneath a collection of mismatched bracelets and fingers bedecked in equally as random rings. Tommy takes a quick look at his legs—not particularly long, but fuck if they don’t look strong beneath the denim. He’s Tommy’s type of man to the letter, and Tommy wonders if fate or Ada put him in this bar tonight.

“Do you know an Ada Thorne?”

When the man’s brow furrows, Tommy waves him off with a _never mind_ gesture.

Fate, then.

“Tommy Shelby,” Tommy says. “Can I get you another?”

“Why the fuck not,” he replies with a shrug. “Alfie Solomons.”

*

Tommy loses himself while talking with Alfie. He learns a few basic facts about the man—thirty-three years old, occupation: baker, lives in Camden—and a few things he could do without knowing—has a dog (with photograph evidence), lives next to his mum, sports all manner of awful tattoos. (The ink itself isn’t what’s offensive—Tommy finds _that_ quite appealing; it’s that this strange man would tattoo _padre fiero_ on his body in honor of his dog). Tommy also soon discovers that Alfie Solomons is incapable of telling a short story and suspects that half of what he’s told is pure artistic license.

He would be a liar if he denied that he’d spent the better part of the last thirty minutes of their conversation half-hard.

While he can’t be certain, Tommy thinks that Alfie has noticed. At least, he’s done nothing to hide it exactly or discourage what he interprets as flirting disguised as playful banter. But Tommy had also learned a very hard lesson in school when he’d misinterpreted such things for interest. Since he has no interest to get into a fist fight tonight, Tommy is perfectly content to just let Alfie make a move. Otherwise, he’ll go home alone. Arthur, Ada, and John can put up with his shitty mood for a while longer; not like they don’t deserve it after pulling this little intervention.

“—and _that_ , right, that right there, is how the Solomons got into the bakin’ business.”

“Cover for an illegal rum distillery, eh? Impressive story there. I’ll give you that,” Tommy says, grinning. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe most of it.”

Alfie places his hand on his chest. “You _wound_ me, Tom. Right, square in the fuckin’ heart, mate.”

“You would hardly be the first.”

Alfie claps him on the shoulder and squeezes a bit, and Tommy can’t help but allow his eyes to shut for just a moment. It feels nice; his hands strong, sure. Tommy wouldn’t mind feeling them on his bare skin, all over his body. And he’s had a touch too much whisky, he realizes, because he can’t remember if he actually gives Alfie an appreciative groan or not.

Alfie winks, and suddenly his cheeks begin to burn.

Definitely too much whisky then.

Alfie opens his mouth to say something when they’re interrupted by a man who Tommy’d seen lingering back with the singles. The man’s attention is focused solely on Alfie though, his body angled away from Tommy and nearly stepping between the two of them.

“I’ll call you soon?” the man says, lifting a slip of paper that Alfie had apparently given him earlier.

“Yeah, well, about that. You can go ahead and bin it on your way out.”

The man’s face falls, and he mutters a few curses as he makes his exit. Tommy doesn’t miss the annoyed look thrown his way, as if Alfie had already been spoken for before Tommy had ever entered the pub.

When they’re left to themselves again, Tommy arches his brow and Alfie shrugs. They share a smile.

“Are you always so blunt?” Tommy asks.

“Just savin’ meself the trouble, ain’t I?”

“I thought you said you weren’t here for singles night.”

“Tommy,” Alfie says, placing a hand on his knee. “I say a lot of things, don’t I? And, if I’m rememberin’ correctly, which I usually do, on account of havin’ a memory like a bloody steel trap, I distinctly recall you sayin’ that you weren’t here for it either. And, on top of that, you outright _mocked_ these poor sods because, and ‘m quotin’ you directly here, ‘no one meets anyone at these fuckin’ things.’”

“And? Get to the point, Alfie.”

Alfie squeezes Tommy’s knee, his fingers lingering. “Well, you met me, didn’t ya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! We're officially at our 12 days. I hope everyone has had a great holiday season so far and wish you all the best in the coming year! 
> 
> FYI, I'll be wrapping up the Inktober drabbles (they'll be Inkuary at this point, I suppose) next, and I have a lot of ideas for T/A fics that are either longer one-shots or multi-chaps. However, output might be a little slower for me after Inktober is wrapped. I need to finish writing my dissertation and will be getting married all before the end of March. However, I'm always happy to chat T/A over on tumblr. Cheers, lovelies!


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